Page 43 of Shadowfox

I adjusted my scarf as I crossed the yard, letting the chill bite at my cheeks. Each step brought me closer to Farkas—and, more worryingly, closer to the Soviet officers still lingering near the gate.

Only now, they didn’t look like men wasting time.

The one with the cigarette ground it out under his boot and shifted his weight, one hand sliding over the strap of his rifle. The other no longer pretended to read his clipboard. He stood straighter now, like he’d remembered what he was being paid for.

I didn’t look at them, but I felt it—their attention—sudden and full.

Farkas stood beside a rust-stained relay post as he studied a printed schematic. His coat billowed in the wind. Up close, he looked older than his file photo—hair thinner, lines of his face deeper—but there was still that intense, restless intelligence behind his eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, affecting a friendly, almost sheepish smile. “Are you Dr. Farkas?”

His head turned, and his eyes landed on me like a scalpel. “Who’s asking?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Hank Calloway, U.S. State Department liaison. I’m part of the joint infrastructure review group from Vienna.” I gave a slight bow. “Apologies for the interruption, but I’ve read your name in a few reports and didn’t want to miss the chance to meet and ask something directly.”

He looked me over, jaw tight. “They’re publishing my name now, are they?”

“Just citations,” I said. “Footnotes. You’re a legend in our reconstruction offices.”

That earned me a snort—dry and unimpressed.

“Well?” he said. “Ask. Quickly. I have much to do, and this inspection is keeping me from more important work.”

I took that as a green light and opened the map I’d brought, pointing at a section near the river. “I was curious about the secondary transfer points along the western grid. Are they still routing through the pre-war junctions, or has the Ministry authorized new bypass channels?”

Farkas’s expression soured. He stepped closer and glanced at the map like it offended him. “You do not build new channels unless you are prepared to demolish half the city,” he said. “The pre-war junctions are brittle, but they are all we have. Soviet engineers are more interested in efficiency than endurance.”

“Interesting,” I said, nodding as I scribbled nonsense into my notebook. “And signal redundancy—are you finding issues with field overloads on the civilian supply grid?”

“This is Hungary. I find issues with everything,” he muttered.

A few feet behind me, boots scraped against gravel.

One of the Soviets had moved—just a pace or two—but it made my pulse spike.

Farkas noticed. His eyes darted past me for the briefest second, then returned to mine, sharper now.

“Is there a point to this, Mr. Calloway?” he asked, voice clipped. “I am not a tour guide.”

I smiled, hoping to disarm the frigid man, and folded the map.

“No, of course. I didn’t mean to distract you.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folder—the kind they handed out at the embassy, all meaningless charts and exaggerated success stories. “I just wanted to share this, in case you’re interested in how we’re rebuilding Vienna’s signal structure. You might find the methods useful—or laughable.”

Farkas didn’t take it.

“All manner of things are flowing west.” I extended it anyway, keeping my tone light. “I believe you will find this interesting, particularly the playbill. American jazz fascinates me. Did you know there is a wonderful band playing here in Budapest? I purchased you tickets, should you be interested.”

Farkas’s brow furrowed as he grappled with the strangeness of my offer.

“Two tickets,” I said, holding up two fingers.

He stared at my fingers, then glanced to the folder. His face screwed up, then smoothed as he realized he was thinking far too loudly.

Then he reached out and took it.

I kept my hand on the folder, forcing him to lean in while I whispered, “If you would like to attend the concert—or discuss it further, there is a map in your folder. Tear the playbill on the corkboard indicated, and we will arrange a time to chat in a more private setting.”

Releasing the folder, I stepped back and smiled. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I’ll leave you to your inspection.”

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